


All's Well That Ends Well

by Arinia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Good Omens: Lockdown, Haircuts, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Silly, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), quarentine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: Out of all the things Crowley had expected to find, one Aziraphale staring despondently at the bathroom mirror, scissors clutched in his hand and a sea of blonde curls around his feet was not one of them. And if Aziraphale’s rare outburst of cursing was any indication, he was not very pleased with the results.In which, after six weeks of lockdown, and his beloved barbershop being shut, Aziraphale succumbs to the same temptation that thousands of humans around the world have. With... mixed results.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	All's Well That Ends Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeethHoarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeethHoarder/gifts).



> Originally inspired by Michael's tweet about his out of control hair, and the unhealthy amounts of quarantine haircut fail compilations I've been binging. But, with the 30th anniversary being today, and that amazing, incredible Lockdown video we got (which if you haven't watched, what are you _waiting_ for?!) I finally decided to hurry up and finish it.
> 
> Not related to The Phone Call, just some silly, established domestic fluff, that hopefully makes you smile a little during these frankly rough times. I haven't had much of a writing muse lately, so pumping this out was a nice way to just be with Crowley and Aziraphale again. 
> 
> For my dear friend, who's my biggest fic cheerleader, and helped inspire the ending.

It was a nice day.

All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than 7 of them, though Crowley had long lost track at this point. Days bled into weeks into months and shit, was it really May already?

And true, human stay-at-home orders did not necessarily have to apply to (retired) angels and demons. They could easily slink out of sight, bask in this glorious never-ending sunshine (the nicest April Crowley could remember in many decades), and their beloved humans would be none the wiser.

But, strolls through an empty St. James park were eerie more than relaxing. The boarded up shops, the melancholic closed signs on their favourite restaurants. There wasn’t much fun at all to be had in the world lately, and so they remained locked away in the bookshop, trying (and failing) to keep the growing cabin fever at bay.

“Oh, damn it all!”

Some days were more successful than others.

Out of all the things Crowley had expected to find, one Aziraphale staring despondently at the bathroom mirror, scissors clutched in his hand and a sea of blonde curls around his feet was not one of them. And if Aziraphale’s rare outburst of cursing was any indication, he was not very pleased with the results.

“You’ve been busy, I see,” Crowley drawled, cocking an eyebrow and leaning against the doorframe. They were both going a bit mad cooped up inside, but he had never anticipated Aziraphale actually taking _scissors_ to his hair in a fit of boredom.

Perhaps they really should think about getting out of London, lest he starting getting any ideas about _Crowley’s_ long locks.

“Oh, stop it. Stop it right now.” He was pouting. Truly and utterly pouting, pulling at the sad, lank curls that remained on his head. Upon closer inspection Crowley could see what an absolute hatch job Aziraphale had done; everything uneven and sticking out at odd angles. It was all he could do to stifle his laughter, rounding Aziraphale who was glowering at him with wobbly lips.

“When you said your hair was getting too long I thought you’d, y’know, miracle it to stop growing or somethin’.” He wound an errant strand around his finger, a strange little pang of sadness in his heart that those delightfully messy curls were no more. He had rather grown to like the look.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that wouldn’t have solved anything.” Stormy eyes roved from the traitorous scissors back up to Crowley, whose long fingers were brushing stray hairs from those flushed cheeks. “You know everything is shut for the time being, and my barber too, the dear fellow. And he _is_ getting on in his years, it would be utterly irresponsible to go to him until all this is truly over, and-“

“Aziraphale.”

He heaved a sigh, eyes shut and cheeks darkening even more. “Well, I couldn’t exactly wait any longer. And I thought, well I’ve seen it done enough, surely it can’t be too hard…”

A snort escaped (despite Crowley’s absolutely best intentions), earning him a rather withering look in response. Fussy, delightful, beautiful Aziraphale, and his stuffy bathroom covered in hair, and God, Crowley really did love him in moments like this. A great tidal wave of affection that insisted he kiss Aziraphale’s brow, still chuckling against his skin.

“I’d tell you not to quit your day job, but I think you already have.” Aziraphale huffed and Crowley’s grin only widened. “Come on, just miracle it back to normal, ‘s what I always do. I promise I won’t even bring it up… all that much.”

A peculiar expression flitted across Aziraphale’s face at that, twirling the scissors round and round in his hands. Nervousness palpable in the air, a familiar wiggle that Crowley knew all too well.

“Really? You mean to say all those hairstyles over the years, they were _all_ done with miracles?”

“ _Yessssss_.” Long and drawn out, pieces sliding together as Aziraphale fluttered his delicate lashes, eyebrows raising ever so slightly. He knew where this was going, where it was always going, a dance they had perfected over the centuries.

But, Crowley waited, sharp eyes taking in the hands wrung together, the tilt of his pretty little head _just so_. It was the same old story, his willpower and sneers crumbling away with minimal resistance the moment Aziraphale looked at him.

“Oh. Oh, I see. I just thought, well you had ever so many, darling, and some of them so elaborate. I thought you out of anyone would certainly know a-a thing or two about this sort of thing.”

_Flutter-flutter. Pout-pout._

“Maybe.” Those scissors were awfully shiny. Little flowers dotting them, Victorian by the looks of it. They’d be warm and sturdy in his hands, he could imagine, shearing through those curls like butter on a summer day.

_Sigh._

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Crowley guided Aziraphale to a chair that hadn’t been there before, the gentle hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder belying his exasperated expression. “You’ve completely butchered it, angel. D’you even see what you’ve done back here? It’s damn near bald.”

There was a tartan cape now, and a steaming cup of tea with a little biscuit to boot on the saucer. Aziraphale’s spirits seemed to have lifted a great deal, if the smug little smile on his face was anything to go by, eyes locked on Crowley in the mirror. “You do what you think is best, Crowley dear. You’re the expert.”

“I could make it worse,” a remaining long curl was held up, scissors dangling dangerously close to his scalp. “You really shouldn’t trust a demon.”

“I’ll take my chances.” And now there was a tartan comb in Crowley’s hands, too.

So it went. (Not that Crowley had much of a choice in the matter, they both knew.)

Crowley truly didn’t know much about hair, much as his restless need to change suggested otherwise. Often someone caught his eye, and his imagination took care of the rest. He murmured a few choice words to the scissors not to _fuck things up_ , and tentatively snipped, warily watching for Aziraphale’s reaction.

Said angel merely sipped his tea, and flashed him an encouraging smile.

Despite what Crowley would ever freely admit, there _was_ something relaxing about the whole affair. The steady rhythm of the comb and scissors, the comfortable silence that settled over them, wonderfully warm and familiar. Aziraphale’s hair was silk through his fingers, glimpses of sunshine as they caught the light. He could feel Aziraphale steadily relax as the minutes stretched on, the shivers whenever Crowley knelt by his ear to blow the hair away. Every touch turned to a caress, drifting over the patchwork job, breathing new curls to life under hands that had once been condemned to torment.

For a moment, brief and precious, nothing amiss in the world.

“I do wonder how long this will go on.” Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him now, gaze firmly fixed on his teacup. “I know it has only been a few months, but…”

Crowley did know. The sick feeling that had settled in his gut, of pointed silences, wondering if saving the world had accomplished anything at all. Was it Pestilence riding once more? Or something ineffable, some unlucky thing that simply was, nothing more?

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

He dragged the comb back, again and again, until Aziraphale’s eyes slipped shut and his shoulders slumped. “They’ll get through it. They always do.”

Their eyes met, thousands of years weighted down in a dusty mirror, tired smiles of understanding. _Their Side_ not limited just to two, but billions; souls who laughed, and cried, and were joined together in one singular moment in time.

“They do, don’t they.”

Crowley faced him now, capturing his chin and claiming his mouth. Languid kisses, pregnant with relief that they weren’t alone. Crowley shuddered to think of being holed up in his flat, wheedling Aziraphale to close the distance. Through wine, through cake, through anything at all. Only able to hear Aziraphale’s voice through the crackle of the telephone, unsure of when they could touch again…

He buried his hands in those glorious curls, felt Aziraphale do the same. Chests pressed together and hearts beating in tandem, as so often they did these days. Crowley pushed all his silent confessions into that kiss, and Aziraphale responded in kind, seeking reassurances only they could offer.

Slow to pull away, Crowley pausing to admire his handiwork, tilting Aziraphale’s chin this way and that. Aziraphale ducked his head around Crowley to look in the mirror, a small smile playing at his lips.

“You kept it long.”

“Errr… well… it’s shorter than it _was_ , isn’t that the whole blessed point?” It _was_ shorter than before, but long enough for the curls to bounce with every happy wiggle, for a few strands to fall across his face. “Could have left you walking around with that, no barber to fix it for weeks and weeks. It’s quarantine, angel, time to try new things, and all that.”

He was still straddling Aziraphale, could see the slow flick of his gaze from the mirror back to Crowley. A twinkle in his eye that could only mean trouble, Crowley’s skin beginning to warm in anticipation. “Perhaps you’re right. What better time to try new things than now? Next time you should, oh, what is it called again? Ah yes, give me a mohawk.”

Crowley gaped, the stream of sounds coming out of his mouth incomprehensible in any language, dead or alive. “A-a… wh-what? Are you… you’re fucking with me aren’t you?”

“Isn’t that what you were sporting 40 years ago? My, it was grand. As tall as the ceiling.”

“You’re ridiculous. You’re completely, fucking-“

Aziraphale crushed their lips together, swallowing any more of Crowley’s feeble indignation. And Crowley did not dare protest as he was hoisted in the air, still straddling Aziraphale’s waist, certain that they could yet find _another_ way to stave off their boredom.

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom has been incredible, and I'm so grateful I decided to see what all the fuss was about and watch it last year. Here's to 30 more years of Aziraphale and Crowley, and to all of you who have made writing for Good Omens worth it.


End file.
